House & Home
by cheride
Summary: Mark grieves over the judge. Contains permanent character death.


_House & Home- cheride_

_Rating: G_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_A/N: One of my earlier stories; I thought I would post here. Warning: Permanent character death._

* * *

Mark McCormick drove down the lonely stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway; the dark solitude of the road a perfect match for his current feelings. As he drove, his thoughts drifted back over the events of the last ten days, and his memories were simultaneously an infinite blur and vivid snapshots of moments frozen in time. It was, he knew all too well, a contradiction that comes only in the wake of tragedy.

He had gotten the message in the middle of a staggeringly boring lecture on contract law: Hardcastle had been injured and was being treated at L.A. General. With a mumbled apology to his professor, he had immediately gathered his belongings and dashed out of the classroom. The speed with which he had raced his red sports car across town was irresponsible, but the thought of slowing down had never crossed his mind. Milton C. Hardcastle, the retired Superior Court judge who had taken him into his home—and his heart—five years earlier, was hurt, and nothing would keep McCormick from his side.

The emergency room staff had directed him upstairs to surgery, and he had found Frank Harper in the waiting room. The police lieutenant had quickly filled him in...multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, allegedly delivered by a known mobster that Hardcastle had been attempting to bring to justice. McCormick had railed at Harper; the judge wasn't supposed to be working on any cases alone; that had been their deal as McCormick had grown increasingly busy with his education.

Twelve hours later, the doctor had emerged from surgery to speak with McCormick. The operation was complete, but the prognosis wasn't good. Hardcastle would be in the intensive care unit, but it was unlikely he would regain consciousness. McCormick had spent the next three days at his bedside, holding his friend's hand, crying, and praying. The hospital staff had not been pleased to have him there constantly, but had quickly realized they could not make him go. Harper had also been there most of the time, though he had been in and out of the room. Still responsible for commanding his police unit, he was operating from a payphone down the hall. On the second day, he had returned to the room with the news that they had arrested the man responsible for Hardcastle's shooting.

But even with Harper's almost constant presence, and several others of Hardcastle's friends who had stopped by the hospital, McCormick had been alone in the room when his friend and mentor coded. He had watched the doctors and nurses do all they could to revive him, but it simply wasn't possible to overcome the extent of the damage his body had sustained. The staff had agreed to let him remain for a while, and he was still holding the judge's lifeless hand when Harper returned to the room almost an hour later.

Returning to Gulls Way, the Malibu estate he and the judge had shared, McCormick had pulled out Hardcastle's rolodex and made call after call to notify family and friends. The following day had been spent making the necessary arrangements...the last thing he would ever do for his best friend.

Almost immediately, people had started arriving at the estate. Some, like the judge's aunts, May and Zora, his brother, Jerry, and McCormick's father, Sonny Daye, stayed with him at Gulls Way. Christy Miller, the daughter of one of Hardcastle's high school friends, had also come to town to stay with him, hoping to help McCormick through this most difficult time. Others had simply come and gone, just feeling the need to express their sympathy.

The day of the funeral, it seemed that every one of the hundreds of mourners from the service came by the estate one last time. McCormick thought that the strange group of people—everything from policemen and judges to farmers and criminals—was a fitting tribute to the man who had lived his life trying to make the world a better place one person at a time. He had made the rounds, greeting people, thanking them for their support, and reminiscing all day, and everyone commented on how well he was holding up. But when he walked back into the den to find the Courthouse Racketeers playing a farewell rendition of _When the Saints go Marching In_, his composure had slipped and he ran all the way to the beach to be alone with his grief.

Sonny had been the first of his houseguests to depart. Almost immediately after the funeral, he had apologized and said he didn't know how to help his son deal with the loss of the man he had regarded as a father. McCormick had wanted to object, didn't want Sonny to feel betrayed, but Hardcastle really had been more of a father to him than Sonny ever was, so he had simply said goodbye.

Over the next few days, the other guests left to head back to their own lives, until the only one remaining was Christy. They spent a lot of time just sitting on the beach, watching the waves crash to the shore. She had accompanied him to the attorney's office for the reading of the will. And, just this morning, she had offered to help McCormick go through the judge's things. He wasn't ready to do that, yet. Honestly, he wasn't sure if he ever would be. He had taken her to the airport to catch the very last red-eye out of town, and he had trembled almost uncontrollably as she hugged him goodbye.

Now, as he pulled into the drive of the empty estate, he realized he had made his first trip to Gulls Way in the same early morning hours. He swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the fact that there would be no one to greet him this time, no one to share a game of guerilla basketball in the cool night air. He climbed out of the Coyote and walked slowly to the door of the main house. His house now, he reminded himself. He still couldn't quite believe that. When the attorney had read the will, McCormick had not been surprised to hear about the generous bequests the judge had left to his family members, as well as several charitable organizations, and even Sandy Knight. What **_had_** surprised him, though, was that the bulk of the Hardcastle inheritance—including the Malibu estate—had been left to the young man the judge had once sent to prison and subsequently blackmailed into joining his white-hat crusade. Oh, McCormick had been certain old Hardcase would make sure he was taken care of...they were long since past the time in their relationship where either of them could pretend they didn't care for each other. But he had not expected to be the primary recipient of the personal fortune. He thought he had made it clear to the judge years before that he didn't want his money.

McCormick wandered through the house, turning on every light in an attempt to banish the shadows that filled his life. He went into the kitchen, thinking he might want something to eat. But as he looked into the cabinets, he was reminded of the many times Hardcastle had bellowed about his never-ending appetite eating him out of house and home, and he suddenly wasn't hungry at all.

He went upstairs to Hardcastle's bedroom. Was it his bedroom now? McCormick pushed the thought from his mind. He entered the room, not really knowing what he intended, knowing only that he needed to be here. He ran his hand softly across the bed, but found no warmth there. He opened the closet door and stared at the hanging clothes. He reached out his hand tentatively and felt the cool touch of the casual cotton clothing that the judge had lived in. He smiled, remembering the look on the undertaker's face when he had brought clothes for the judge to...wear. He had chosen navy slacks and a simple sport coat, but he wasn't about to put Hardcastle in a buttoned up shirt and tie for eternity, so he had taken one of the tee shirts. The undertaker had stared at the slogan: Lady Justice is a Tough Old Broad. Then he had stared at the curly haired young man who had presented it, his expression clearly showing his disapproval. But he had not voiced an argument, and McCormick hadn't even tried to explain.

Looking through the closet now, he was flooded with memories, and he could feel the tears flowing from his eyes. He buried his face in one of the tees, trying so hard to feel the presence of its owner but knowing he was to be forever denied that particular comfort. After a moment, he raised his head to look deeper into the closet and felt a small laugh escape his lips. He pulled out the bright tropical print shirt that Hardcastle had been wearing the day he led McCormick back to his chambers to explain his crazy Lone Ranger scheme. As he remembered his own behavior toward the judge in that office, he was hit with a brief tinge of guilt, but he dismissed it. He knew that Hardcastle had forgiven him long ago for the bitterness he had displayed. Smiling to himself, he slipped the obnoxious shirt on over his own clothes and turned to leave the room.

McCormick headed back down the stairs, taking one step at a time instead of his usual two or three. He was being drawn to the den, and while he knew he couldn't deny the pull to the room, he felt the need to delay it for at least a moment. He hesitated outside the double doors, doors that had been closed for the last couple of days because it had hurt so much to be in that room. Christy had offered to sit in there with him, and he had tried, but there had been no comfort in the surroundings, and she hadn't forced the issue.

He opened the door, and cautiously stepped into the room, feeling the memories wash over him. It didn't really seem possible that so much of the last five years could be contained in this single room, and yet this really had been the hub of everything. So many cases, movies, arguments, conversations- all in this room. He ambled across the room and placed his hands lovingly on the smooth desktop, staring blankly at the empty chair behind the desk. It seemed like only yesterday when he would celebrate the judge's absence by making himself at home in that chair, taking pleasure in the knowledge that it would drive the old man crazy. Now it was his, and he would give anything to see the cranky jurist sitting there again.

He turned away from the desk and let his eyes wander around the den. They came to rest on the picture of Nancy Hardcastle that had been in this room for as long as he had known the judge. He felt the small, sad smile forming on his face as he tried to focus on the only positive thought he'd been able to maintain for the last week: the judge was with his family again.

McCormick took the few steps across the floor to reach his regular spot and dropped into the easy chair. He lounged sideways in the chair with his legs draped across the arm, wanting desperately to be as normal as possible. He reached instinctively for the television remote but instantly changed his mind. What could he possibly watch right now? If it turned out to be something Hardcastle would have enjoyed, he knew it would just magnify the loneliness. And if it turned out that he would be able to watch something that the judge would never have tolerated, well...he thought that might be a hundred times worse. He pulled the judge's crazy shirt tightly around him and wondered how he could feel so out of place in the same room that had made him feel safer than he ever had in his life.

He sat in the brightly lit room staring at the blank television screen for close to an hour, not even fully aware of the tears that streamed down his face. Finally, he admitted to himself that he still wasn't ready to spend time in this room alone. He pushed himself up out of the chair and headed back for the doorway. He climbed the small steps and left the room, but he left the doors open.

He paused at the front door and turned back to survey the mansion once more. His mansion. The thought popped into his mind, but he shook his head. Not really. It was strange, but he felt more like an outsider here than he ever had before. This house had been more of a home when it belonged to someone else, and—in his heart—it still did. He would spend more time here tomorrow, and even more in the days to come, but not tonight. Tonight, this house was the home of his friend, and he was content to let it be.

"Goodnight, Judge," he whispered, as he turned off the light and pulled the door closed behind him.


End file.
